Some Things Are Personal
by Yesterday Once More
Summary: For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.
1. The Widow

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_The Widow_  
The Jenkins' household in the wake of Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins death.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Lilies, irises, chrysanthemums, roses, statice, and Queen Anne's lace covered almost every flat surface of the modest home. Every blossom was unblemished whit. Every man and woman who wandered the halls wore unmarred black. No one raised their voice about a murmur, and few dared to allow even their footsteps disrupt the quiet. Sometimes brief laughter intruded when old friends shared stories together, but it was always quickly banished.

Only a select few begrudged the young widow at the center of the mourning her solitude. If men from her husband's unit came bearing condolences or flowers, she received them. She rarely stayed in their company long, instead passing the duty of hostess to her mother, sister-in-law, or her mother. Then she would return back into her husband's study to be alone with her grief. Every so often, after her departure, one or two, usually women, would chide her.

"Very ungracious," one had said, unaware of how her voice carried.

"She's proud." The widow had heard her husband's sister say, her voice gentle. "She doesn't like to let others see her cry."

More often than not, though, the mourners expressed their pity. "How difficult it all must be," they said. She had waited for six months while the police scurried about frantically to find Second Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins or to identify the body they found on a city street as his. The corpse was male, but the face had been so disfigured that the identity could not be determined. The damage was so severe that the young Mrs. Jenkins had never been allowed to try and identify the dead man. Finally, when the soldier did not reappear and witnesses placed him near the area where the man was found, the police ruled him dead.

The killer was never found.

No one intruded on the widow's sanctuary within the study. No one saw her pull back the heavy curtains to allow the sun in. No one saw her close her eyes and bask in the warmth. No one saw the single purple columbine and the note that read "LTR." No one saw the downturned wedding photograph of the lieutenant and his wife.

No one saw Helga's smile.


	2. The Things We Leave

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_The Things We Leave_  
A royal pardon allows Helga Sinclair to leave Atlantis with her life.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

(Author's note: Some chapters/scenes will be slightly AU, presuming that Helga survived the volcano with the help of Dr. Sweet and Milo Thatch. This will likely be detailed in a later scene.)

* * *

The Atlantean chamber looked fit for a queen. The bed frame was ornately carved, the covers lush and hand-woven. Colorful tapestries lined the walls, boldly displaying stories of the lost history. A painted bowl on a table within reach of the bed offered an array of fresh fruit, and a gold chalice waited nearby with cool, clear water. Light, red and blue, filtered through the sheer curtains covering the window and glinted off the silver rods supporting the wall hangings. A gentle breeze came, carrying the smells of both the flowing water just outside and the churning lava a hundred feet below. Two men, tall and strong, stood sentinel just beyond the archway leading into the room. Their white hair contrasted their dark skin, and brilliant blue tattoos spanned their shoulders and dipped beneath their simple but stately garments, continuing down their backs. At each man's side waited a clean, polished blade with an ornate hilt. They both also held spears.

However, they were not present to protect the woman in the room. Their purpose was to make certain she remained where she was and did not escape the metal restraint connecting her wrist to the headboard. She was not a guest. She was a prisoner, guilty of grievous crimes against Atlantis and its people.

The quiet footsteps that entered the room didn't worry her. She kept her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. When a weight settled on the side of the bed, she dropped the act. She knew it wasn't Sweet- too light. Mole knew better and wasn't so still. Ramirez wouldn't bother, and she doubted Vinny would be too concerned. None of the Atlanteans came near her, so that left one person.

She looked up at Milo Thatch.

He met her gaze and looked away, missing her smirk. She couldn't help but think that he seemed so young. In terms of years, they weren't far apart, she knew that much. Still, every gesture of his was like a guilty child. He was a hero, the savior of Atlantis, but he remained so unsure of himself. She watched him fold his hands, bite his lip, and adjust his large glasses. He cleared his throat twice before he found his voice.

"I'm… I'm sorry about the handcuffs," he managed.

"A necessary precaution." Her voice remained level, and she smirked further at his confused expression. "Have I been sentenced?"

Milo nodded.

"Out with it, Thatch," she prompted.

"You're…" He looked at her with a boyish grin. "You're going home with the others, Helga."

Lieutenant Helga Sinclair sat up on the bed to meet his eyes better. She refrained from asking him why he was so pleased. To someone like Thatch, she knew, escaping a death sentence was a great boon, and he saw only his own world-view. He'd saved her life once with Sweet's help and had done so again, for she was certain the Atlantean queen had not given mercy freely. The least she could do for him was spare his idealism. She only said, "Thank you, Mr. Thatch."

"I promised Kida I'd take you to the transport," Milo explained as he unlocked the metal band around Helga's wrist. He frowned and bit his lip again. "And…"

"And I'd be handcuffed again once aboard?"

"How did you—?"

"She's too smart not to be sure I can't make trouble," Helga replied.

"You… won't, will you?" He watched her rub her worn wrist, more puppy than boy. "On the way back, on the surface, anything?"

"Atlantis will never hear of me again."

"And the Heart?" For a moment, she saw the man. Brave and faithful. He lacked the looks, she considered, but he had the heart of the fairy tale princes her mother had read to her about when she was young. He was proof that good existed in the world and that it sometimes, when least expected, managed remarkable strength.

"It's proven that I can't have it." She rose to her feet and staggered. Pain ripped through her chest, sides, and back. Torn muscles, cracked ribs, and a broken collarbone didn't heal overnight. Her legs, unused for a week, nearly gave out beneath her. Still, she ignored Milo's offered arm and made her way to the window. The Heart of Atlantis glowed above the city, basking all in its light and glory. "It's taken enough from me to make its point. I know when to cut my losses, Mr. Thatch."

"Helga…" He stopped short of touching her shoulder. "Do you want to… freshen up? Or anything?"

"No. Lead the way."

Milo carefully put a hand on her elbow and showed her out of the room. She wondered briefly if his hold was to support her should she stumble or to restrain her should she try to flee. Not that, realistically speaking, she had anywhere to run if she broke away.

As she walked with Milo through the halls of the palace, Helga tried to look in every direction and see every item.

A soldier leaned against his spear. Three hundred dollars at a proper auction. A woman straightened a tapestry depicting the Great Flood. Two thousand. A man poured water from a silver pitcher. Six hundred. Two children ran past, chasing a ball. One hundred. All around her, every neck bore a small crystal, the slightest piece of the Heart. Five thousand. Each. At least.

Outside, every step down made Helga wince. Building a palace high above the city with steep stone stairways leading to the doors made an impressive sight, but it proved tiring for a wounded soldier. Helga leaned briefly against Milo's shoulder when they reached the base, but she kept him from saying a word with a glare.

They continued on without speaking.

"Here," Milo finally said.

She looked at the massive stone machine. It resembled a narwhal, and much of it had been intricately carved with Atlantean designs. Its open mouth served as a boarding plank. Mere feet away, piles of gold, jewels, and fabrics waited.

"A hero's goodbye," she murmured, stopping beside the treasures.

Milo smiled sheepishly. "I couldn't have done it without them." He looked toward the palace then the Heart of Atlantis wordlessly. She knew he could barely believe what he had accomplished. His eyes came back to Helga, and he sighed. "Come on. We'll… I'll find you somewhere comfortable to sit."

Helga shook her head and followed him into the vehicle. While she watched Milo arrange bolts of cloth for her to lean against, muttering all the while to think of how best to avoid aggravating her injuries, the lieutenant reached into her pocket. She had survived the loss of her entire crew, the mutiny of her carefully chosen specialists, and a traitorous commander. She was injured and ruined. She didn't deserve to come out of this with nothing.

And no one would miss a single gold and ruby necklace.


	3. Partners in Crime

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Partners in Crime_  
While Milo explores Atlantis with his royal guide, Rourke and his lieutenant discuss their own plans.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

"I want him."

"Really? I didn't think the kid was your type."

"Kid, huh? What does that say about me?"

"World of difference, Lieutenant," Commander Lyle Rourke said as he joined the woman at the large window.

The room behind them stood as a testament to the grandeur of Atlantis. The high ceiling was supported by large columns, expertly carved and inlaid with silver. A fraction of the pillar alone would fetch a fortune. The frame of the large bed had been fashioned from stone, but the blankets on it were woven softer than silk. The rich hues of blue and green reflected the soft glow of a lamp at the bedside.

Below the window and some distance away, two figures strolled along the shoreline, blissfully unaware they were under surveillance. The Atlantean princess, with her white hair and dark skin, moved easily. The man with her was less composed. Even though they couldn't hear him, the pair watching new he was talking. A lot. He gestured wildly, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

Lieutenant Helga Sinclair chuckled. "He's got a lot to learn, but we could use him." She looked at Rourke. "A cartographer and linguist who specializes in dead languages."

"I know that look," he replied with a smirk.

"He could read the notes on the maps we have, tell us if they're legit." Helga met his gaze. "We need someone like him, Commander. He could be the key to finally finding El Dorado."

The older man looked out the window again. "She'll be a problem."

"Hardly."

"You think so, Lieutenant?"

Helga frowned. Generally, that phrase meant he felt she was wrong. "He'll learn not to get attached," she murmured before shaking her head. "I saw him that day." Her voice lowered as she went on, "They dismissed him, laughed at him, and insulted his grandfather." She smirked again. "Between wanting to belong somewhere and needing to prove himself and vindicate his grandfather? Moral objections won't stand a chance."

"We'll see," Rourke replied.

"He won't be hard to get rid of if he doesn't."

"After we get the crystal."

She laughed. "Of course."

"You look tired." He chuckled when she rolled her eyes at him and gave him a half-serious glare.

"An hour of sleep last night. Damn Thatch. Who would have thought bugs—"

"How long is it until the meal we've been invited to?"

Helga quirked an eyebrow. She knew he'd been listening when one of the king's guards had come to 'request' their presence at the evening meal. All of them had known it was an order. The old man wanted them where they could be watched. She shrugged her shoulders. "By now? Four hours."

"You should rest. I'll need you at your best tonight." She nodded once. They had only tonight to act, to find the crystal. After a pause, he added, "Three hours of sleep sounds just right, doesn't it?"

She looked over her shoulder at him as his hand slid under her shirt and up her back. Her only reply was a chuckle.


	4. First Blood

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_First Blood_  
In the Valley of the Kings, more than the desert threatens the safety of Rourke's young protege, Helga Sinclair.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Nineteen-year-old Helga Sinclair woke in the middle of the night. She bit her lip to try and restrain a pained groan. Her leg throbbed as she shifted where she lay. Cleaned and tightly bound as it was, it still hurt. Less than the probably poisoned spikes she'd dodged would have, but her worst injury before this had been a skinned knee. She gasped when she sat up on her bedroll. However, the sight before her drove all thoughts of her leg from her mind.

A man twice her age stood in front of her, his shotgun in his hands.

"Mr. Landon?" she muttered. She tried to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the sleeping crew. "What are you doing?"

"Shoulda done it from the start." His words slurred together, and Helga smelled the alcohol all around him. "Before Kelly and Pat died. Shoulda done it when I first saw you."

Helga slid back slightly and looked around. If she screamed, would anyone be awake quickly enough to help her? She opened her mouth, but Landon cocked his gun and put the barrel to her forehead. Her voice died in her throat.

"Told the cap' that women're bad luck. Been nothin' but a curse from the start." His body wavered, and Helga prayed for him to stumble. As his finger curled around the trigger, the girl squeezed her eyes shut.

A shot rang out, hot blood splashed on her, and Helga screamed.

It took several moments of screaming and sobbing for her to realize she felt no pain and wasn't bleeding out. When she finally opened her eyes, Mr. Landon was sprawled out across part of her bedroll, a bullet firmly in the back of his head. She screamed again, heedless of the men now buzzing about her.

Only when a strong hand gripped her chin and its partner clapped her shoulder did she quiet. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at the broad, forty-three-year-old Captain Rourke. She met his eyes and tried to speak, but only a sob came.

"You're safe," he said. He looked completely unruffled, and only his voice made sense to her above the din of others talking. "Just take a breath, Sinclair. You're safe."

"He—he was going to—"

"No one's going to hurt you." His expression softened as he released her chin to draw a cloth from his pocket. He gave it to her, and she wiped her eyes and cheeks. She stared at the dead man's blood on the white fabric. "Not on my watch."

"Why would he—"

"Booze and heat." Rourke stood and helped Helga to her feet. He looked at the other men. "Get this cleaned up." His gaze turned back to the girl. As he touched her arm, he said, "You can sleep in my tent." He cracked a bit of a smile, as if to reassure her. "I'll keep watch. All night."

Helga drew in a shaky breath and released it in a wavering sigh. Without a second thought, she threw her arms around the captain and hugged him.


	5. Love, Honor, Obey

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Love, Honor, Obey  
_Mercenaries and marriage vows don't mix well.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

The small parlor served as a warm haven from the chill of the February air. A fire blazed in the grate, and its shadows danced across the walls, alternatively illuminating the faces of the occupants and throwing them into shadow. The broad man in the armchair nearest the fire carried himself like a king, and the sleek woman on the divan stretched herself slightly. She looked across the room at her companion, and her lips curled into a faint smirk.

"You never disappoint," she murmured.

He laughed and leaned back. "Too much disappointment, and you might get bored. I can't have that."

"Oh, I doubt—"

She stopped abruptly as the front door opened. The woman sat up and reached under the nearby table. Her finger curled around the trigger of her Peacemaker as she watched the parlor door. Footsteps drew closer then stopped. The door eased open.

"Christopher." She let herself breathe. As she lowered the gun, she looked at the man in the doorway. He was large, but the man in the chair was taller and had wider shoulders. Dressed in his army uniform and wearing a displeased expression, the newcomer almost looked intimidating. "I wasn't expecting you back until tomorrow."

The man looked from his wife to the man in his chair to his wife again. "Obviously." He narrowed his eyes at the man. "Rourke."

"Jenkins."

"It's rather late to be entertaining company, isn't it, Helga?" Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins asked the blonde woman.

His wife only smiled. "I suppose Captain Rourke and I simply lost track of time," she replied. She crossed the room, abandoning her gun, and she stroked her husband's cheek. "Old friends will do that."

The man seized her wrist and held it firmly. "You're flushed."

"I've been in front of the fire." Helga tensed and lightly pulled away, but Christopher kept hold. Under her breath, she muttered, "Let go."

"I'm not going to let you make a fool of me."

"Jenkins." Rourke rose, and his voice carried a warning. The lieutenant released the woman, and she narrowed her eyes.

Christopher looked at Rourke. "Get out."

"No," Helga said. She cocked her head. "Lyle, do sit back down. We're not finished with our conversation." She glared at Christopher. "Besides, you promised me a game of chess."

"I said for him to leave."

His wife laughed. "Do you think I take orders from you?"

"You damn well better!"

"A little late to change the rules now, Christopher. You knew what you were getting when you proposed. I made it very clear—"

"Helga," Christopher said warningly.

She continued, undaunted. "I do what I please with whom I please."

The lieutenant said nothing more. He brought the back of his hand across his wife's cheek. She turned her head with the force of the blow and took a step back to steady herself. He raised his hand to strike another blow. "I won't be spoken to like that!"

A moment later, Christopher's face slammed into the parlor door. His arm was twisted back behind him, and all efforts to free himself proved useless.

"Any real man," Rourke said, his usually even voice laced with anger, "wouldn't need to hit a woman to make himself feel powerful. Why shouldn't I break your arm in five places?"

"I'll have you arrested," Christopher snapped. Rourke forced his arm back further, and the lieutenant cried out. "Helga!" he shouted. "Call him off! Now!"

"Why should she?" Rourke replied. "And what makes you think I'd listen?"

"Helga!" Christopher's voice filled with rage. "Call him off! Or I'll divorce you. I can ruin you! Throw you out on the street."

"Coward. Threatening her now?" The captain changed his grip, preparing to shatter the bone.

"Captain." Helga touched Rourke's arm. "Let him go."

"Helga," Rourke said, but she shook her head.

"He's right, Rourke. I am his wife. I made my vows, and I must honor them."

"At least you see sense," Christopher muttered as Rourke released him. He rubbed his arm.

Helga averted her eyes demurely. "May I show Captain Rourke out, darling?"

The lieutenant glared but nodded. He watched as his wife and the other man went down the hall and out the front door.

Outside, Helga Jenkins clenched her first and glared at the door. "How dare he!"

"You let him," Rourke pointed out. When the woman frowned, he cupped her chin to look at her face. "He's a coward."

"But he can ruin me." She looked up at him. "Even your influence might not be enough to get us financial backers if he makes a scandal of this."

"I doubt he's going to part with you for any sort of expedition."

Helga's eyes narrowed. "Like he can keep me away. I'll kill him if I have to."

"Really?" Their eyes met, and an understanding passed between them.

Helga spoke quietly. "If anyone suspects—"

"Leave it to me."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Play with him." He stepped close to her and drew her near. "Be the good little missus: penitent, obedient, docile." He kissed her hard. "And have your black ready."

Helga watched him depart and remained on the porch a few moments, letting the cold air brace her, cool her anger. When she returned inside, she found her husband in his study. She silenced his apology with a gentle kiss.


	6. Nostalgia

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Nostalgia_  
One night, a father reflects on his daughter.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

"Are you happy?"

The question produced an immediate reaction. The woman tensed, the muscles in her back tightening as she straightened. She pulled her shoulders back and crossed her arms over her chest. Her head turned, and one strand of blonde hair fell across her face. She tucked it behind her eat and took a long look at the man who stood beside her, still leaned against the porch railing.

Major Alexander Sinclair stood just taller than his grown daughter, though her boots helped her. He was much broader than her. Even if temperament was worlds away from her mother, the two women shared a sleek build. His hair had turned gray over a decade ago, but his eyes were young. Sometimes, when she was lost in thought of didn't know he was watching, he almost wondered if Helga hadn't somehow grown older than him.

"Sir?" she asked.

He repeated himself. "Are you happy?"

Where was his little girl? He watched her out of the corner of his eye. When had he blinked and missed so much? What happened to the nine-year-old he'd bribed to study French with Jules Verne novels? When had she stopped being the thirteen-year-old he scolded for picking fights and ruining her dresses? How had his rebellious sixteen-year-old daughter become a trained soldier who barely blinked at a gunshot? Where was the twenty-three-year-old woman he'd waltzed with at her wedding? Why would he wake up at midnight and find her here, standing on the porch, her pistol at her hip?

Helga took her time answering. She closed her eyes and briefly interlaced her fingers. Something weighed on her shoulders, valiantly as she tried to hide it. Five years ago, he would have embraced her, held her against him until she let everything out, but the major hesitated. At times, he wondered if he even knew her. He settled for gripping her shoulder.

"I am," she finally said.

A twig snapped, and he felt her muscles twitch. Her hand went to the grip of her gun.

"Helga, it was probably a cat."

Had she always been so on edge?

"A cat," she echoed, but she didn't relax.

He ran his hand down her back, pressed lightly against her spine. "I thought," he murmured, "I might invite Captain Rourke to dinner tomorrow evening."

The words had the desired effect. Her back loosened, and her lips quirked ever so slightly. He almost smiled himself as he watched her. Poor Christopher. Even now, he thought fondly on the man, if not with some pity. Had he ever known? The major thought not. What man would suspect he'd never be first in his wife's heart? He doubted any man could ever rival Rourke in his daughter's eyes. He also doubted Rourke even realized how much he meant to Helga.

"Where are you going next?" he asked.

"Iceland. Professor Thatch thinks there's something worth finding."

"What?"

"He didn't tell us."

He let her lie, merely kissing the top of her head. "Come back inside, sweetheart. You need to get some sleep tonight."

She didn't protest, and he led her back into the house. She wasn't his little girl anymore he knew, but he was still her father.


	7. Amidst the Gale

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Amidst the Gale_  
Sometimes no words are needed.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

A clap of thunder shook the small house and roused the sleeping man. he rolled over in the large bed, content to resume his rest. His hand moved beneath the covers, but a cooling decline of cloth met his fingers rather than a warm incline of flesh. With some reluctance, he forced his eyes open again.

The sparsely furnished room was still. No gust of wind penetrated the windows, even as rain beat against the panes of glass. An electric lamp flickered to life at the man's touch. By its dim light, he saw the woman missing from his side. She stood before the window, a pale beige robe pulled around her slim figure. A crack of lightning illuminated her face, her lips drawn into the faintest of frowns.

She turned her head briefly at the light. Her eyes met his before she looked away. A second flash preceded another roar of thunder, and the lamp went out. The man rose and crossed the room. Barely able to see, he found his way to the woman. His hand hovered by her hip, but he made no contact. Only his breath touched her, sliding down the slope of her neck.

When her hand cupped his cheek, he bowed his head to press his lips to her jaw. He felt her nails push against his skin just enough to be noticeable. She leaned against his chest as he gripped her waist. His kisses moved down, and her lips parted to take in a silent, deep breath. He lifted his head briefly when he reached her robe. She shrugged to reveal her shoulders, and his attention resumed.

Her heart beat faster, pumping blood to her cheeks as he slid a firm hand between the folds of her robe to caress her. He lifted his head, and a chuckle escaped him as her body arched against his. Lightning lit the room again, and he looked down at her, briefly able to appreciate the exposed flesh of her robe's plunging neckline. He lost sight of her, just able to see her barely open eyes, as the flash died as quickly as it had come. Only a faint silhouette remained in the darkness.

He gave a murmur of disappointment when she moved, but he didn't attempt to stop her. She pressed her chest against his and put her hand on his cheek. As her fingers traced his jaw, he bowed his head. He felt her breath against his lips, and another burst of light revealed the smirk on her face as she pulled back. He grasped her hip and drew her near, but she placed her index finger to his lips.

She looked down. With one finger, she traced a jagged, twisted scar on his chest. She kissed the old wound as his fingers twisted in her hair. A slight, gentle pull made her turn her face up toward him. Arching again, she found his mouth with hers. Where her gesture was light, his response was heavy. He wrapped his arm around her waist under her robe and pulled her tight against him. She returned the kiss with a similar fire as her hand pressed against the back of his neck.

The pair crossed the room, every step perfectly together. The woman's robe fell to the floor long before her lover pinned her to the bed.


	8. Santorini

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Santorini_  
Preston Whitmore hires only the best, no matter their circumstances.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Obscenity required no translation. The glances the uniformed men exchanged, the way they looked at her, and the tones they used told Lieutenant Helga Sinclair everything she needed to know about their conversation.

The warden had guaranteed her safety in his letters to Mr. Whitmore and Commander Rourke, and he'd repeated his promises at the prison gate, after the woman had been required to surrender her Peacemaker revolver. Helga hadn't bothered to tell him that if his men or prisoners attempted anything, she wouldn't be the one in danger. Besides, she reminded herself, Rourke was waiting for her at the embassy. If she didn't report in or came with fresh bruises, anyone she named would answer to him. While she had little desire to let someone else fight her battles it was a small relief to know he would—especially as she waited in a prison in a strange country.

Helga sat, still and silent, at the metal table in the middle of the room. She faced the door, watching the chatty guards. If she spoke their language, she was sure they wouldn't speak. One leered at her, and she quirked an eyebrow. Her muscles tensed when a knock came from the other side of the heavy door. Three more men entered. Two were guards, and the man between them wore a prison uniform. Helga stood, and the convict sat across from her at the table. Once the four guards departed, Helga took her seat.

She took stock of the man silently. The last five years had not been kind to him, but they had not destroyed him. With some air, light, and activity, he would be perfectly fine.

"Signor Vincenzo Santorini," she said, her Italian passable but far from fluid, "mi chiamo Helga Sinclair."

"Americano?" he asked.

"Si."

"Then why don't we do this in English?" He had a light accent, but it didn't make him difficult to understand. Helga had no difficulty admitting that his English was better than her Italian.

"Vincenzo Santorini, my name is Helga Sinclair."

"Said that, y'know. Bad Italian doesn't mean I didn't hear you."

Helga ignored him. "I am here on behalf of Mr. Preston Whitmore. He wishes to make you an offer."

Santorini grinned as he said, "Must not be a good one if he has to send you with it. 'Never trust a deal from a pretty lady,' my father always said."

"Did he now?"

"Well. No. But it's still a good policy."

"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Santorini, but I hope you'll hear me out." When he made no objection, she went on. "Your skills caught Mr. Whitmore's attention, and he intends to make you a very wealthy man."

"Uh-huh." The man looked entirely unimpressed. "Until somebody starts poking and prodding around and someone has to take a fall. Then—poof. Back here."

"Not at all. Unlike your work in Italy, Mr. Santorini, everything Mr. Whitmore will ask of you is entirely legal."

"Well, I'm listening. Not getting any younger either."

Helga straightened. She took out papers and a pen from her bag. "This," she said as she gave him the packet, "is a contract. You will work for Mr. Whitmore for five years. After that, you may have the opportunity to renew the contract, or you will be welcome to go your own way. Day-to-day work in the mining and construction aspects of his company pays a moderate salary. The precise figure is on page three. You will also be obligated to join a team of specialists financed by Mr. Whitmore. We protect and assist archaeological expeditions, and we are in need of a demolitions expert." As the man looked through the contract, she continued. "These expeditions are dangerous, even life-threatening. Your first expedition would be in June and would give you a base pay of three hundred dollars. Depending on the assessment of your work, this could increase to five hundred dollars for the next expedition. You are also entitled to a small percentage of any profit made from the discoveries of the expeditions."

The Italian looked surprised. "There's a catch, isn't there? What is it?"

"Only the dangers of the missions. You will serve under an extremely capable commander, Captain Lyle Rourke, but your safety cannot be guaranteed." Helga smiled faintly. "I am also authorized to offer you five thousand dollars as an incentive for moving to a new country and establishing yourself there. Twenty-five hundred dollars is waiting for you at the embassy, and the rest would be presented to you after your meeting with Mr. Whitmore on American soil."

"What's to stop me from, y'know, getting the money and, oh, disappearing?"

Helga leaned forward in her chair, meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't advise it, Mr. Santorini." She rose. "I'm afraid I need an answer by Friday. The warden—"

Santorini stood and held out the contract to her—signed.


	9. Small Comforts

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Small Comforts_  
The crew lost to the Leviathan are mourned in private.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

The fires scattered about the campsite flickered out one by one. The men and women who had sat around them retired to their tents and sleeping bags. One light remained, an electric lantern that hummed as it threw its unwavering artificial light down a cavern. A lone figure, seated on the ground, followed the path with her eyes as far as it went. Nothing emerged, but she never loosened her hold on the sleek pistol in her hand.

For the first time in eleven years, retreat was not only unacceptable but impossible. They couldn't go back the way they had come, and only one man could read the map to their destination and whatever warnings it might contain. No alternate plans could be made. She was accustomed to following, but she had never done so blindly before. She'd never been without a choice.

A touch pulled her from her thoughts. A man's hand, large and firm, settled against the small of her back. The woman looked over at her companion as he sat beside her. Even seated, he was taller than her and easily twice as wide. He ran his hand up her back as she looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

"Lieutenant," he murmured.

"I keep going over it. Again and again. I keep looking for the mistake."

"You didn't make one." His other hand cupped her chin and forced her head up. "You did everything right."

Helga Sinclair stared at her commander. "A hundred and fifty men."

"I know." He sighed. "We've lost men before."

"Never this many," she replied. She looked away from him again. "We can't even let their families bury them."

He rubbed her back again and moved closer. She leaned against his side lightly, and Lyle Rourke reached into a pocket of his jacket. "Will you do me a favor, Lieutenant?"

"What is it?"

"Take this." He offered her a small, white pill.

Helga took it and frowned at him, "Why?"

Rourke moved his hand again, applying gentle pressure along her spine with two knuckles. "Because I know you. You won't sleep."

"Someone has to keep watch."

"Leave that to me tonight."

"Commander."

"Lieutenant."

Helga put the pill on her tongue, bit one, and swallowed the two parts. She looked up at the older man again.

After glancing around briefly, Rourke dipped his head to brush his lips against hers. His second-in-command moved closer, and he wrapped an arm around her. Her head settled on his shoulder as he stroked her side.

"Just rest," he muttered. "You did everything right. You deserve to get some sleep." He listened to her breathing steady and felt her muscles relax as she succumbed to the medicine.


	10. One, Two, Three

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_One, Two, Three_  
Three dances with the bride on her wedding day.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Husband and wife glided across the floor, their rise and fall perfectly timed with the lilting waltz. The man, impeccably clad in a military dress uniform, held the woman with all due propriety. One hand cupped hers while the other rested against her shoulder blade. Her hand barely touched his shoulder. The bottom of the sleek white gown brushed the floor with every movement. They looked in opposite directions, as form dictated, but each glanced at the other in turn.

Every eye remained trained on the newlyweds. The sunlight and electric lights caught the woman's jewelry and made the gems sparkle. The diamonds on her left finger, right wrist, and neck flashed as she craned her head and revealed more of her pale throat. The well-wishers saw the couple's lips part just slightly, but the words were too hushed to be heard. Still, nearly every soul present knew the pair was whispering sweet nothings to one another.

"You promised."

"Love, I didn't—"

"You told me that wouldn't be in the vows."

"I told the bishop."

"You're lying."

"You know how men like that are. Slaves to tradition."

"I should have refused to say it."

"Love."

"I should have corrected him."

"That would have ruined the ceremony."

"And what I want isn't more important?"

"Helga—"

"Consider your next words very carefully, Christopher."

"You shouldn't worry, love."

Before the woman could reply, her husband bent his head to lightly kiss her as the music died away. He moved away a moment later to bow to his mother. As she took his hand, a man touched the younger woman's arm.

Helga smiled and allowed herself to be swept into the next dance. Her partner wore a formal military uniform like her husband but with more decoration. His silver hair lent him a distinguished air. Once of her hands rested in his palm while the other curled around his shoulder. His hand gently touched the middle of her back, his fingers spread. He led his daughter through the steps, and she followed him with ease. She looked over his shoulder and he over hers.

"You look beautiful."

"All Elaine's work."

"Your mother is still giddy. She never thought you'd get married."

"I really didn't plan on it."

"Oh, I know, my dear. You were always quite vocal."

"I suppose I was, wasn't I?"

"What changed your mind?"

"There's just something special about him, I suppose."

"As long as you're happy. That's all I care about."

The major chuckled and leaned in to kiss her forehead as the band quieted again. He relinquished his hold on her, and the bride began to step away from the dance floor. However, someone else tapped her shoulder. She forced a smile as she turned, but it faltered when she saw a third man in Army dress blues. He was older than her husband, younger than her father, and his insignia marked him as a captain. He extended his hand to her, and she thought she saw a challenge in his smile. She put her hand in his.

He spun her once, effortlessly, and her hand settled snugly against his. She gripped his arm while his firm hand pressed against the small of her back to draw her nearer. They began their waltz when the music resumed but needed no count or even a beat. Every step matched, as if together by instinct rather than merely movement at the same time. Neither even thought about breaking eye contact.

"White doesn't suit you, Sinclair."

"Jenkins."

"Of course."

"Making mistakes isn't like you, Captain."

"It was a rather brief engagement."

"Why should love wait?"

"You forget I know you. The only thing you love are those diamonds of yours."

"They are rather fetching, aren't they?"

"You've inspired quite a bit of gossip."

"Old women enjoy gossip. Old men too. Particularly when it isn't true."

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That the good lieutenant may be guilty of a youthful indiscretion."

"Not with me. He's barely touched me."

"I find that hard to believe."

"He's kissed me twice. Nothing more."

"Now that is a crime. A proper man shouldn't be able to keep his hands off you."

"You flatter me, Captain."

"I wouldn't refuse an invitation to do more than that."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Do."

She tilted her head as the music faded. It wasn't the same as when they had started. Somehow, they had danced through at least two songs. She smirked faintly at her last partner before she finally retired to the table where her mother waited for her with Christopher's mother. The bride took a drink of water as her mother animatedly related some story of her childhood or another. Or perhaps she was explaining to her daughter's new mother-in-law that the captain was a friend of the family. She didn't particularly care.

Christopher joined them shortly, and Helga barely listened to what he said. He touched her hand, and she smiled at him. All she could do was wait and pray for the reception to be over so the wedding night could begin.


	11. Marksman

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Marksman_  
Natural aptitude and a good teacher make a marksman.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Two people stood on the snow-covered shooting range of Missouri's Fort Dix. Their thick, Army regulation boots kept their feet dry, and their uniforms and coats blocked out as much of the chill as was possible. The man towered over his student, and her slim frame looked absolutely delicate in comparison to his broad stature. The girl, seventeen to his forty-one, turned over the Colt revolver in her hands before she stared down the lane at the target.

Even she wasn't sure whether her cheeks were flushed from the cold or how close behind her the man stood. She started when he touched her hand.

He chuckled. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Sinclair."

"Oh—Of course not, Captain." The girl cleared her throat when she felt a hand on her hip.

"First, there's posture. Hips back. Shoulders back. And down." With every command, he forced her body into compliance. When tensions made her shoulders rise, he firmly pressed them back down. "Back straight." His hand rested briefly on her spine. "Feet apart, shoulder-width." He hit the side of her boot with his foot until he was satisfied. "Don't lock your knees." His knee connected with the back of one of hers, almost sending her into the snow. "No faster way to faint."

"Are you enjoying this?"

His laugh was warm. "A bit."

She had to laugh as well. "What now?"

"Now for grip." He took her hand and closed it around the gun.

"Like this?" After years of watching her father and brothers, Helga felt she could manage a basic grip.

"Close, but there's too much tension." He laid his hand over hers and moved her fingers just slightly. "The best way I can describe it is this—Handle your gun like a lover." He touched her wrist, straightening it. "If your hold is too loose, there's no control. It's erratic. If you hold too tight, there's no room to move. Everything is a fight." She felt him move closer with every sentence, and his voice lowered. Her breath caught in her throat. "Now," his words were almost whispered into her ear, "look at the target. Know what you want. And—fire."

She squeezed the trigger and tensed at the sound of the shot.

Captain Rourke stared at the target. "I don't believe it." He'd moved up and back, and Helga relaxed.

"I'm sorry, sir. I—"

"Dead center."

"What?"

"What in God's good name—" Two men in full uniform hurried over. Rourke took the gun from Helga, and she saluted the major and the general.

"I was giving Miss Sinclair a lesson," Rourke said.

"Most unusual," Major Riley replied.

"And unallowed! She doesn't have the authorization, Captain Rourke!"

"I know, General Lake, but I felt she was ready."

"You!" Lake turned to Helga. "I told you. First sign of trouble, and you're out. Get packing! Now!"

Rourke frowned. "She hit a target dead center at a hundred yards."

"Impossible."

Riley looked the girl over. "She's my responsibility, General. I'm her drill sergeant."

"What do you propose, Major?" the general asked.

"A test. If she can hit within the second inside ring, she stays."

"Her second time shooting? No one can do that."

"Then you'll win, and she'll pack."

"Fine. Rourke, give her the gun."

Rourke handed the Colt to Helga and leaned in to whisper, "You can do this. Just like you did before. Prove you belong."

Helga closed her eyes. She remembered the feel of hands on her, jerking her into position. She adjusted her feet, then her knees, then her ships, then her back, then her shoulders. She felt fingers on her wrist and hand, molding her. She gripped the gun. She opened her eyes and stared at the target.

A bullet ripped through the air and hit—right on the cusp of the first and second inside rings.

The girl laughed and looked to Rourke, who grinned back at her. Major Riley clapped his hand over her shoulder.

"That's my girl!"

He wasn't aware of the looks the young woman and captain gave him.


	12. The Best Laid Plans

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_The Best Laid Plans_  
Plans change, especially when personal feelings and sentiment are involved.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Helga Sinclair stalked the empty halls of the massive Ulysses. With only twelve hours left until the crew began loading the vessel, she knew time was of the essence. The cargo bay, infirmary, subpods, galley, and cabins had been triple-checked. Every communication device had been tested at least twice. The emergency evacuation system controls needed a look-over, the woman decided as she revised her mental to-do list. Midshipman Long—Jacob, if memory served—had given them a pass, but she wanted to know. Someone else's word wasn't good enough.

Fingers curled around her wrist and gripped tight. A sharp tug back brought her against a man's chest, and his other hand settled on her hip. She looked over her shoulder and up. Her eyebrow quirked, and the man behind her chuckled low in his throat before he released her.

"Christ, Rourke," she muttered, smoothing her coat.

"Too easy, Lieutenant." His expression became more serious. "You're usually harder to surprise."

She scowled. "I don't like this."

Rourke pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, but he said nothing. She, as he knew she would, repeated herself for what was surely the fifth time in the last two days.

"Forty-eight hours is not enough prep time for an expedition this size. I know—the plans have been ready for years, but 'plans' and 'reality' are worlds apart. Not to mention that Mr. Thatch will be translating as we go. He should have had months to plan our course."

"And we should have had months to reel him in."

Helga let out a breath. She knew her commander. His tone was teasing, poking fun at her agitation, but his eyes agreed. He could laugh at her repeated rant, but their plans were useless. Gone were the dinner reservations, the casual introductions to their experts, the long conversations about the necessary evil of treasure hunters to pave the way to archaeological wonder. The mission should have begun with Milo Thatch firmly under contract with them, not a mere outside consultant.

"You did what you could," Rourke said.

Helga crossed her arms but seemed somewhat appeased. "Mr. Whitmore should know better. I tried to explain."

"It's personal for him. This one isn't just 'business as usual.'"

"I'm worried."

"Really? Wouldn't have guessed." He smirked when she rolled her eyes.

"We don't know our course. We don't know anything—except that our fate lies in the hands of a man we don't know."

"Then we have to hope he lives up to his grandfather's reputation."

Helga chuckled. "I never thought I'd miss the professor."

"You two had quite the falling out last time. What did he say to you?" He touched her back, and they started down the hall together. "God, that was—"

"Three years ago. He told me I should retire—that this job would kill me." She frowned. "He didn't like my reply."

"What was it?"

"That I was counting on it."

"Helga."

He stopped and turned to look at her. She ceased walking as well but started straight ahead. A cool, stiff silence descended. Every job risked life and limb, but the risk usually remained unstated. More superstitious people might have worried about discussing such things aboard an untried ship meant for the voyage.

"This what I am," Helga said. "I want to die doing what I love." She shrugged her thin shoulders as she looked over at Rourke.

He took his head. Still, he chuckled as he said, "Lieutenant?"

"Commander?"

"Get some sleep."

"Yes, sir. I will after—"

He drew near. "That was an order."

"Was it?" She peered up at him as a smirk crept across her features. "Permission requestioned to use the captain's quarters."

"Granted."

Helga hooked her fingers under the knot of Rourke's tie, and he bowed his head. "Will the captain consent to join me?"

"He's a very busy man, especially with an undertaking of this scale. But I'll see if he can't make time in his schedule for his lieutenant."


	13. Desert Heat

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Desert Heat_  
Business as usual in the Southwest.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

The unrelenting July sun beat down on the flat, open desert in the middle of New Mexico. Miles from the nearest town, a ranch stood. Any grass castle might once have grazed on was gone, and the iron gates stood wide open. A steer's skull stared out across the vague path leading up to the main building. Across the sign bearing the grim marker, well-displayed words read "Carnaby's Trading Post."

A heavy, Army-issue truck sped toward the post, leaving a cloud of red dust and clay lingering in its wake. It jerked once before easing into a full stop. The engine growled for a moment, as if to complain about the speed or driving conditions, but the key turned in the ignition, silencing its protests.

The passenger left the vehicle as the debris in the air settled. The tall, broad man brushed off his carefully pressed military slacks and retrieved his jacket. His discarded dress shirt remained on the seat. He shrugged on the coat and buttoned it over his damp tank top.

The woman behind the wheel, six inches shorter than her companion even with her boots, got out. Her hair was soaked with sweat, and her tank top clung to her slim figure. Every inch of exposed skin was coated in dust. With one gloved hand, she pulled on her green overcoat and smooth it out before she popped the trunk's hood.

"You coming?" the man asked.

"In a minute," she replied, waving him on. "I need to check this out. Ramirez'll kill me if I ruin this thing."

After a brief look over, the blonde woman decided she'd had enough of the heat and sun, so she abandoned her task and stepped into the post.

Two couples looked up at the military woman's entrance, associating her immediately with the man in conversation with the shopkeeper. The woman took a moment to examine the artifacts on display. Some were, as the owner loved to say, "museum grade." Others, however, were nothing more than modern replicas, cheaply made and sold for authentic prices. She neglected to tell the couple fawning over a sculpture that, to a trained eye, it was clearly only weeks old and made with modern tools.

"Well," the post proprietor drew the word out when he saw the woman approach. "There's Missy Sinclair. I was jus' askin' Lyle where you got to." The short, round man laughed and tipped his large cowboy hat to her.

Helga Sinclair managed a terse smile. "You said you had business for us, Mr. Carnaby?"

"Damn right I do. Got it all cozy in the office, jus' waitin' for ya'll."

Ashton Carnaby led Lyle Rourke and Helga into his office. Five crates waited, four filled with pottery, jewelry, statuettes, and other items fresh from excavation. In the middle of the room, the fifth crate was empty but surrounded by packing materials.

"So," Carnaby began, "what's the game, Lyle?"

Rourke looked at Helga and nodded.

"Simple swap," Helga replied. "Two crates we've got in the truck for our pick here."

"An' how do I know ya'll aren't pullin' a fast one? Not that I think y'would, mind, but a man's got—"

"We don't pass off junk as priceless," Rourke cut in.

Helga smirked. Years of working with Carnaby through Whitmore and freelance had proven that the people-pleaser persona her commander often adopted was useless here. Here, he was all military. She chuckled and shed her coat. Even the breeze of the air conditioner Carnaby kept for his office couldn't make the outer layer bearable.

Carnaby watched as the woman knelt down by a crate. What her shirt left to the imagination, he imagined. Vividly.

"Two glasses of water," Rourke said, removing his jacket. He rolled his shoulders and briefly fixed Carnaby with a look that said everything. When the salesman scurried out of the room, the military man took a moment to admire the blonde before he joined her.

"Junk," Helga muttered, discarding a pot. She held a bead necklace to the light before throwing it aside. "Worthless." Next her deft fingers retrieved a small statue. She showed it to Rourke, who nodded. The woman seized a piece of newspaper and wrapped her prize.

Three hours later, Helga, back in her long coat, hauled two crates out of the truck before loading the one full of the items she and Rourke had selected. Rourke and Carnaby shook hands.

"Pleasure doin' business. Now, don' be strangers. Ya'll come to visit more, y' hear?"

"We'll see what we can do," Helga replied. She wiped her brow with the back of her glove, but even that was wet.

"Lieutenant," Rourke said. "Keys."

"Commander?" Helga looked at him.

"I'll drive us back to town."

Helga passed the keys off without complaint. As she climbed into the passenger seat, she heard a coyote howl in the distance.


	14. The Valley of the Kings

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_The Valley of the Kings_  
The 1903 expedition to the Valley of the Kings marked more than one "first" for the nineteen-year-old Helga Sinclair.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

From the top of the sand dune, nineteen-year-old Helga Sinclair saw the desert fade, turn green, and meet the powerful Nile. The setting sun stained the once blue sky red, orange, and purple. Shadows crept ever nearer, and the light breeze ghosted across her face. She breathed in the hot, dry air and almost gasped.

For the first time in her life, she had no desire to be anywhere else.

Everything was almost perfect.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The man's voice in her ear startled her, but she never looked away from the horizon. Her breath caught in her throat.

"I'm in love," she whispered.

He chuckled without insult. "Should I leave you alone?"

"No." The word came quickly, and she spun around, as if to grab him if he'd stepped away. The lack of distance between them surprised her.

Helga looked up at him. He was her mentor and employer, even if he gave her the distinct impression that she worked with him rather than for him. All too recently, he'd become her protector as well. He'd killed a man, a longtime employee, to save her. She didn't know how she'd ever properly thank him for that.

Commander Lyle Rourke towered over her. His wide shoulders gave him a build twice, if not three times, her size. She knew what it felt like to press against his firm chest, have his strong arms around her. He'd held her a week ago, cradled her like a child, until she'd ceased to tremble and been able to wash her assailant's blood off her. He'd known exactly what to do, how to soothe her and calm her fears.

But she had one father. She didn't need another.

He wasn't supposed to see her as a daughter. She'd fought for her place in Fort Dix. She'd pushed herself to the edge to not only survive basic training but conquer it. She'd refused to be anything less than his most accomplished combat student. She'd practiced until she couldn't stand in order to excel at marksmanship. And she'd ruined it all by forgetting she was a soldier the first time her mettle was tested.

Her shoulders fell, and he saw it. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry." Helga turned away from him, back to the Nile. Less than half the sun remained over the horizon.

"For what?" he asked.

She tensed and said, "Losing it. The whole point of my training was for war—death. And I—do that the first time I'm threatened."

"By a coworker and while you were half asleep." Rourke signed, and she swore she felt his breath on her neck.

"I should have—"

"But you didn't," he cut in. His voice was gentle, full of a paternal warmth that made her want to scream. "Think about 'next time,' not 'last time.' Next time, you won't need me."

"I'll always need you," she said, automatically. He chuckled again, low in his throat, and Helga tilted her head at the sound. She saw one of his hands move out of the corner of her eye and let herself pretend he'd almost touched her.

"Alexander still calls you his little girl," the man said. She refrained from answering. Why shouldn't he talk about her father, remind her that they were friends? Wishing he would let her forget was worse. "I don't think he realizes how much you've grown."

She forced a chuckle. "You make it sound like you've known me since I was a child."

"I have," he said. Before she could turn around, he continued. "A child got on that train with me—willful, stubborn, argumentative, temperamental. But I've watched you." She felt his breath on her neck, and his voice made her want to beg. She needed to feel his hands on her. "You've grown so much. You're strong, self-reliant, determined, and disciplined."

"Commander," she whispered.

He took his time answering. "What is it?" She heard something in his tone—something expectant, prompting. At least, she thought she heard it.

"Oh." She hesitated. Her thoughts swirled together, and she couldn't untangle them. All she could think about was him. Perhaps, she briefly considered, the day's heat had caught up to her. "I—"

"Yes?"

Helga tilted her head back again, half trying to find an angle that would keep her legs from giving out beneath her. She saw his hand, no more than an inch from her hip, and she drew in a sharp breath. "Commander," she said again.

"Hm?"

It was the heat. She knew it. How very close he was, the way he seemed to stop just before he put his hands on her, the tone of his voice. All of it was a fevered mind coupled with a girl's fantasy, caught up in a setting that freed her from so many conventions and loosened what bonds of propriety it couldn't break. At best, he'd laugh at her. At worst, he'd send her back to Maryland. But, like the flood waters from the life-giving Nile, the words could not be held back.

"Touch me."

The older man behind her said nothing, and Helga felt like an idiot. Any respect these last two years had earned her, she'd just thrown away. She turned toward him, unable to even glance up. Her imagination filled in his expression, and she knew seeing the real thing would be more than she could handle. Before she could step around him, he caught her arm. His face seemed completely neutral when she willed herself to look, and she waited for the scolding. Or perhaps a lecture on virtue.

None came.

Instead, his other hand caught her jaw. He angled her head up with the same gentle force he'd used to position her hands when he'd taught her how to shoot. She tensed, unsure of what he planned to do. She saw him smile and listened to him chuckle under his breath.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

He kissed her. His hand held her jaw as his lips covered hers. Her knees threatened to buckle under the weight of the kiss, so she seized his shirt, clutching the cloth and his shoulder to keep herself standing. Rourke released her arm to curl his fingers around her side. He tugged her closer, right against him. Hesitantly, she reached up to set her hand against the back of his neck. When he broke the kiss, Helga looked up at him. She pulled her hand back and let go of his shirt, but his hands never moved.

She stared. Twice, her mouth opened and closed without a sound leaving her. She started to speak again, but he bowed his head to claim another kiss. He slid his hand to the small of her back, drawing her even closer to him. The kiss deepened, and she wrapped her arm around his neck. He let go of her jaw to touch her side, but his hand didn't stay. It slid up, against her ribs, then over to grope at her chest. The girl groaned into his mouth and tightened her hold on him.

Rourke pulled back again before dipping his head to press his lips to her jaw. She tilted her head, and he followed the curve of her neck. He pressed her back while his other hand lightly squeezed her breast through her shirt. She trembled, and he chuckled against her throat. Finally, he drew back, and Helga watched him, breathing hard.

"Commander," she managed. The word came out, but her voice was strained. Her eyes didn't leave him as he smiled.

"Haven't seen you speechless in awhile, Sinclair."

"I—" She hesitated. How could he do that then talk so casually? He was mocking her. He had to be. She watched him, waiting for the laughter. All of this had to be a joke. The only sign of any such thing, though, was the way his smile had twisted into a smirk, and even that didn't seem to be really at her expense somehow. "What was that?"

"You aren't that innocent," he replied.

She glared, and he chuckled.

Rourke stepped closer as he said, "Sounded like you wanted me to do it."

"I did!" She opened mouth, closed it, and narrowed her eyes as she realized what had come out. "It's just—I—Why me?"

"Told you that." He kissed her again, harder than before. "Any more questions?"

He silenced her first thought by bringing his lips to hers as soon as her mouth opened. Every time, she only wanted him to do it again that much more. "I—" she finally managed, "It's just—I—" Another, heavier kiss, and his hand gripped her hip, drew her in. "I don't know what to do."

She felt him chuckle again against her lips. "You're a good student. I'll teach you."


	15. On the Spot

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_On the Spot_  
An evening dancing with Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins ends in a surprise for Helga.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Women in dresses all colors the rainbow danced with men in dark blue. Their long, full skirts rustled with every step and spin, and quiet waves of giggles rippled across the floor as their dutiful partners whispered flatteries into their waiting ears.

Despite the differences in dress make, fabric color, hair color, and hair style, one onlooker felt they all looked the same. The men, though dressed alike, were unique. Their statures spoke to rank, and each face bared its story, even as some tried desperately to hide it. Married men danced with their wives or daughters. Other of their kind led unsuspecting girls about, cooing over their beauty and testing their supposed virtue. Single men danced with their sweethearts or the wallflowers who, homely as they were, manners dictated they not ignore. All about them, women flitted—birds desperate to have their untried wings clipped and build a nest in a gilded cage. For all their attempts to look superior to every other member of their sex present, they were nothing more than a large, uniform flock.

Their harsh critic was one of their own, a woman of twenty-two. For all her disapproval of them, every woman at the social, held on an Army base for troop morale, could agree on at least one thing. They all wanted Helga Sinclair anywhere but there.

She condemned them, and they found every fault with her. She wore her hair loose, long, and straight, forgoing the short, curled style considered fashionable. Her dress was long, but it was sleek. The slit in it to allow proper movement revealed no chemise or slip, and she wore no stockings. Her arms were bare, and the neckline plunged. A brilliant ruby necklace only drew more attention to her chest. Many women were convinced also that she wore no corset under her immodest apparel.

Still, for all the impropriety of her fashion, Helga wasn't shunned by men. She seemed at home amongst the soldiers, gaily exchanging stories of an expedition to Egypt she'd accompanied Lyle Rourke on for their stories of combat. If she was seen on the base at late hours, she was never without an escort. For the first month, it had been her father. With the start of the second, though, she'd been seen increasingly often in the company of Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins.

No one could say with any certainty what Christopher saw in Helga. Physically, they could understand. Long blond hair, sharp green eyes, pale skin. She was pretty enough. However, everyone whispered about her time at Fort Dix. A woman who had undergone and passed Army training was, to say the least, talked about. Gossips loved to speculate on how she had gotten in and then convinced those in charge to claim she passed. Popular opinion had tried her without ever letting her speak in her own defense and pronounced her guilty of gross indecencies. That she shunned the company of women and surrounded herself with men did not go unnoticed. Her presence in the gym was well documented, as were her boxing and combat spars with the soldiers. Her knife throwing and marksmanship abilities were almost legendary, and reputable men would swear to both.

For all his talk, the young lieutenant had led a considerably quiet life. Born to an Army father and raised on military bases, Christopher's career had long been decided. He'd enlisted at eighteen. He spoke of war stories and scars, tales collected from his father and fellow soldiers, but he had never personally seen combat. Related sagas of drink and women were more dime-novel issue than reality. He was known as a devout Episcopalian, and no one found fault with his grasp of etiquette. The size of the Jenkins' estate and his status as the sole male heir made him, prone to exaggeration though he was, a very eligible bachelor.

"Two bullets to the chest?" Helga leaned in, slipping her question into the conversation when her companion paused. He'd been regaling her with a story of heroics, in which he had saved his captain's life while still a private.

He smiled at her. "The doctor said it was a miracle I wasn't killed." As long as she didn't ask around and find out that the real hero was presently waltzing with his wife, all would be well.

The woman eyed his uniformed chest and offered a mischievous smile. "I've love to see those scars."

"Someday," Christopher laughed. He let the silence settle for a moment. After gathering his courage, the man stood and offered her his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Sinclair?"

Helga smiled, extended her hand to settle it in his, and said, "Lieutenant Jenkins, I thought you'd never ask."

Christopher led her to the dance floor as a gentle waltz began. He held her with all due propriety, his hands not even an inch off mark. They moved together, but his head nodded the beat. His forced count barred the natural fluidity with which Helga danced in the arms of other partners. She offered no complaint; she merely adjusted to his pace and held it.

Men and women alike watched the pair from the corners of their eyes. Gently held and guided, every one of them noted, the strange woman seemed almost ladylike. They all considered the same thought: with long and careful polishing from a firm hand, perhaps she could have a place in proper society after all.

AS the song tapered off, Helga curtsied a faint bit to Christopher's bow. He took her hand before she could walk away.

"Just a moment," he murmured.

"What is it?"

"You're a beautiful woman, Miss Sinclair."

"Christopher, let's sit—"

"Let me finish, please." Both were aware of every eye on them. He closed both his hands over hers. "You're not like any woman I've ever met." The lieutenant drew himself up. "I cannot bear the thought of ever living without you."

Realization dawned on Helga, and she stared at the man in front of her. "Christopher."

"I went to your father a week age and got his permission," he said. "We haven't known each other long, but I know I need you. I want nothing more than to come home to your smile. I love you with all my heart."

"Christopher," Helga whispered, her voice almost urgent. She glanced around but avoided meeting the gaze of anyone staring.

The lieutenant ignored her, grasping her hand tighter as he knelt in the center of the room. "Helga Sinclair, will you marry me?"

She stared at him. Her breath caught in her throat, and words eluded her. She stood very still; her pulse raced. Every soldier and woman watched her. For all her failure to conform, Helga felt the weight of society pressing against her. She tried to think.

Men enjoyed her company, but none had courted her. Had they? No. Some had sought her for their beds, but she'd laughed at them. Even Captain Rourke had no interest in marrying her. They worked together, shared a passion for exploration and money. He knew everything about her and, yes, had taken her more than once, but marriage had never been part of the arrangement. She'd accepted that quickly. Yet women were to marry. Christopher was a good match. He was in the Army, understood how unlike other women she was. He was a valiant soldier, tested and scarred in battle. His family was wealthy.

And everyone was staring.

Helga looked down at him. His eyes were wide with anticipation. Christopher grinned as she nodded and was deaf to the hesitation in her voice.

"Yes."


	16. Matches

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Matches_  
Faced with a deadline and withheld information, harsh measures must be taken to ensure success.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

* * *

Nate Donovan looked out across the small village as it slowly came alive with the rising of the sun. He watched women stoke contained fires in pits as men ground grain into paste for part of the morning meal. Small children chased goats about as the older ones tried to catch the animals. Their milk would be used in the meal, he knew. Everything about this trip fascinated the anthropologist, and he felt nothing could have compared to the last two weeks of his life. Of course, he was well aware that his companions were restless. They'd come seeking information on a mine that the British government had been forced to abandon decades ago, and the natives were none too trusting of white outsiders. Donovan knew his job. His understanding of primitive cultures was meant to assist the expedition in getting these people to tell them what they needed to know. They were beginning to open up, and he felt sure it wouldn't be much longer. Besides, he had so much more to add to his book. The others would just have to be patient.

"Donovan!"

The man sighed. He loved the accents of Africa, the Arabian, and the Orient, but he could barely hide a wince whenever an American said his name. It sounded so unflattering, even worse than German. And from a woman! He turned and forced a smile. "Miss Sinclair. Did you sleep well?"

"I'd have slept better if we were on our way to the mine," she answered.

An odd woman, even for an American. Donovan had decided that the first time he met Helga Sinclair. She wore riding boots, even though their trip offered no horses or mules. Rather than clothes suited to her sex, she wore tailored brown pants. Her military coat and long-sleeved shirt had been abandoned nearly the first day of the expedition, leaving only a loose, white undershirt as a mockery of modesty. Her hair was long, kept in a tight braid. Donovan felt sure he'd never seen her without her brown leather gloves to protect her hands. While the material did her no favors, he felt it was some small credit to her to have kept that one trace of feminine fashion about her. A beautiful woman once one got past the masculine traits she tried to adopt, but the Irishman felt her rough exterior hurt any chance she had of attracting a suitor, much less one who would be able to mold her into a proper lady.

"Any day now," Donovan promised. "Don't worry about it."

"What?" the woman narrowed her eyes.

"No need for you to worry," he said, offering Helga his most gallant smile. "They'll tell us soon."

"We don't—"

"Donovan. Lieutenant." A second man joined them. Donovan nodded to him while the woman straightened.

Where Helga Sinclair—Donovan could not believe that a woman had somehow joined the Army and earned the rank of lieutenant—was nothing a decent woman ought to be, Captain Lyle Rourke was everything a man could aspire to be. He was a tall man with wide shoulders. His thick stature was toned, pure muscle. Graying hair framed his square jaw, and he wore his Army field uniform with pride, despite being retired and the heat that climbed every minute. When he'd first met the commander, Donovan had been awed. He was not a short man. Even in her boots, Helga was an inch shorter than him, but Rourke dwarfed them both by over a head. His academic lifestyle meant he was nowhere near the fitness of the military-trained man. Having so obviously capable a man along had soothed any worries Donovan had harbored about the expedition.

"Commander," Helga said.

Donovan smiled. "Rourke."

"Think we'll have any luck today, son?" Rourke asked, clapping Donovan on the shoulder.

"We can try talking to the chief again."

"He's put us off for two weeks," Helga butted in. She glared at the men and tapped the holster on her hip. "It's time to demand answers."

"Threatening them won't do anything!"

"Waiting hasn't done anything, Donovan. It's time to act."

"Lieutenant." Rourke removed his hand from the young man's shoulder and looked at the woman. Donovan drew himself up, pleased at the admonishment in the commander's voice. At least someone could make that woman listen.

"We don't have time for this, Commander." Her voice had changed. Fury was gone, replaced by a kind of desperation. She looked away, chastised but stubborn.

Rourke sighed. He looked at Donovan apologetically. "She has a point. We're supplied for five weeks. One to get here, one to get back. We've spent two weeks here, waiting, and the mine's probably at least a few days away."

"Can't we send for more supplies?" Donovan asked.

"If we can't prove we've found anything, our backer's not going to waste more money on us," Helga snapped. "We've already cost him a million."

Donovan looked between them. The woman narrowed her eyes at him while Rourke's expression conveyed sympathy but a grudging admittance that the clock was, in fact, running down. "I—I'll see what I can do."

"Not good enough." Helga touched her gun again. "We need answers. Today. One way or another, we'll get them."

Rourke chuckled and shook his head. "Let's not be hasty, Lieutenant."

"They've been jerking us around for two weeks. They'll be lucky if they don't have to answer for that."

"There's no luck involved," her commander said. Donovan had to admire how calm the man kept. "You'll follow orders, Lieutenant. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that understood?"

Donovan frowned. The woman nodded and bowed her head, perfectly docile. But the corners of her lips curled. She reminded him of a panther, stooping low to pounce on its prey. Her voice was smooth and inappropriately amused as she replied, "Yes, Commander."

The captain looked her over and nodded once. "Good girl."

Donovan cleared his throat. He had the brief, peculiar sensation that he was intruding on something far more intimate than a scolding. "Captain, we do have an invitation to join the chief for a breakfast."

"Think you can behave, Lieutenant?"

Helga's smirk unnerved Donovan. "I won't do anything against your orders, Commander."

He resisted the urge to grab her. He wanted to shake her, demand to know what she was thinking. He looked at Rourke, waiting for him to call her on it, make her confess what she was plotting. The soldier, however, just looked at him with a paternal smile.

"Lead the way, Mr. Donovan."

The meal was consumed in silence. Donovan and the chief ate voraciously and drank deeply. The chief's young son spent more time watching the strangers than enjoying his meal. Rourke ate but without drive. Helga barely touched the meal before her and only sipped at the goat milk she'd been given.

"We thank you again," Donovan said after draining his wooden cup, "for opening your village to us."

The straw-thatched hut, modest in size as it was, contained a fair amount of luxury within. At least what passed for luxury in cultures such as this, Donovan considered. Finely woven mats, richly dyed, were set around the low table, and painted clay bowls held what remained of the food prepared. Ceremonial spears were inlaid with rough rubies. If not for those, he lamented, there would be no reason to assume these people knew anything about the lost mine.

The chief was a remarkable specimen. Donovan had written about him at length in his notes for his book. The man was nearly forty, quite an achievement without the boons of modern medicine. He was still healthy too, likely to live another ten years at least. His son, only five, was in training to be a hunter, as his father had been before him. "A leader must first prove he can provide for his people before he may guide them," the chief had said once. In a place such as this, Donovan saw the wisdom of such a philosophy.

"You are welcome." The chief's English was halting. What little he knew, he had learned from caravans and explorers. Still, Donovan was pleased he knew any at all.

A quiet sound caught his attention. He and the chief glanced around for the source. It wasn't hard to find.

Miss Sinclair had produced a book of matches. Rourke had one, and he held the wooden end between his teeth. A quaint habit Donovan had observed before in others from Texas, as the Army man was. Helga tore a second match out. Donovan could see five matches left from the look of the book. The woman drew the match head quickly down the table, and it flashed and sparked to life.

Donovan stared at her. If she dropped the match, the rugs and spattering of stalks on the ground would catch fire quickly. The sides and roof of the hut would go next. With the way the village was situated, one hut would pass to the others and reduce everything to ash. He resisted the urge to try and take the match from her. He didn't dare jar her. The chief seemed to hold his breath as the flame devoured the small stick.

Just before the fingers of her glove might have been singed, Helga blew out the match. She discarded the harmless, charred end on the ground.

"We've been very patient." Rourke's low, calm voice broke the stunned silence. "However, my men and I are here for a job. We have a deadline to meet."

The woman struck another match, and everyone but Rourke watched it burn. Like the one before, it was put out and discarded. This one, however, she flicked away from her, and it hit the wall of the hut before falling.

"I cannot help you," the chief said. He shook his head and tried to focus on Rourke. His attention returned to Helga, though, when she tore off another match and struck it. She blew it out and met his eyes before dropping it.

Rourke frowned. "Now, I don't like being lied to." He leaned forward, focused only on the chief. "And my lieutenant here, well." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "She doesn't like to be kept waiting, and you've already done that. If I were you? I wouldn't test her."

"Captain!" Donovan slammed his hand on the table as Helga let another match. "Control her! If she drops that, we'll all be caught in the inferno!"

Helga shook the match until it went out and chuckled. "Not all of us, Mr. Donovan."

"Captain!" Donovan shouted.

Compliantly, Rourke cleared his throat. "Lieutenant."

Helga set down her remaining match. Quietly, she replied, "Yes, sir."

Rourke chewed the wood in his mouth briefly before he removed it to speak again. "We're not looking for trouble or make any, chief. We just want to know where the mine is. Simple."

"When those mines were used, the people who had lived here for years were killed and taken as slaves." The words came out rough, barely able to be understood, but the chief was passionate despite struggling with the language. "I am sorry. I cannot risk that coming here again."

"Wrong answer," Helga said. She lit her last match, dropped it to the ground, then crushed the small flame with her boot heel before it could spread. As Donovan and the chief let themselves breathe, the woman rose. Again, the Irishman was struck with the way she resembled a panther on the hunt.

He realized the danger a second too late.

Her hand clutched the small arm of the chief's son, and she forced the boy to his feet. She drew her revolver, pulled back the hammer, and pressed the barrel against the child's temple. What unsettled Donovan most was her expression. There was no trace of mania or desperation, no hesitation or tell to indicate a bluff. Instead, she stood calm and resolute. She knew precisely what she was doing.

"Yaw!" The pain and grief in the chief's voice made Donovan wince.

He looked at Rourke, sure he would stop this madness. However, the captain simply looked between the chief and the woman. He bit the end of the match again.

"Rourke!" Donovan cried. "Do something!"

Rourke shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing I can do, son. All up to the chief now."

"Release my son," the chief said.

Helga tightened her hold. The terrified boy didn't dare struggle. "Where is the mine?"

The chief sighed, defeated. "To the north."

"How far?" Rourke prompted.

"Three hours. Please, release my son."

"I will," Helga answered. "When we find the mine." She urged the boy forward, out of the hut. Her gun never lowered.

"Stay here," Rourke ordered the chief.

Donovan followed Rourke out of the hut. His chest ached as the villagers watched them. The women covered their mouths, and the men looked angry. They seemed to know better than to endanger their chief's son, though, as none made any moved to attack. The small group made its way north.

They passed an empty, harvested field. Only barren stalks remained where the grain had been cut away. Just beyond that was another field. Its harvest was a week away, Donovan had learned. Some native superstition called for separate harvests at different phases of the moon. He'd have to inquire further, he considered. That was the sort of custom that readers always found fascinating.

"Was this necessary?" he demanded as his thoughts returned to his present company and circumstances.

"You weren't getting results," Helga replied, urging her hostage on. "And we were out of time." She shrugged her thin shoulders. "Besides, this worked, didn't it?"

"You held a gun to a child's head!" Donovan shouted. He turned to the older man. "Rourke! How can you let her do this?"

"Sometimes you have to be a little forceful, son," Rourke replied. "Else they won't take you seriously." He stopped and glanced back at the village. "Speaking of that," he muttered, half to himself.

"Rourke?" Donovan stared.

"Lieutenant." It was a barked order, and Helga stopped. She released the boy and lowered her cocked gun. The child looked around, quivering.

Donovan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Something made him uneasy. What it was, he couldn't say. All he knew was that he was waiting for something. Something dangerous.

"Go on," Helga said. She nudged the small boy in the direction of the village. As soon as he understood, he took off in a run.

"Oh God." Donovan sighed in relief. "Thank the Lord. I knew you couldn't be that heartless, Miss Sinclair. I mean, no woman could bring herself to hurt a child, of course."

Helga continued to watch the boy. After a moment, she nodded. "Commander."

Rourke followed her gaze, and Donovan followed his. The whole village was out, swarming around the freed captive. Donovan started to smile. It was heartwarming, seeing the community rally around to soothe a frightened child. The otherwise civilized world might do well to take a lesson in compassion and community from these baser societies. They had some things right.

"Time to make our point," Rourke said.

His words jarred Donovan from his reverie and draw his attack back. He stared at the man. "Captain?"

Rourke removed the match from his mouth and knelt. He flicked the dry head against the side of his boot. He tossed the burning wood into the lush field that had yet to be harvested. The small flame spread fast, growing and devouring the crops. It raced through the grain as the villagers shouted and scrambled for water from their meager meal.

"What have you done?" Donovan cried. "They'll starve without that food! If the fire spreads to the village—"

"Maybe they'll learn to answer questions quicker," Rourke replied.

"They could die!"

Helga shrugged. "Saves us the trouble of dealing with them next time."

"Are you two insane?"

"Just practical," the woman replied.

"You could try and help them," Rourke said. "Looks like a lost cause. Or you can come with us and get rich."

Donovan gaped at the pair before he took a slow step back from them. "You're monsters. I'll make sure people hear about this!" He turned and ran toward the village.

Behind him, he heard Rourke. "Lieutenant."

Donovan looked in time to see Helga aim her gun. Fear paralyzed him as she pulled the trigger, and the bullet flew at him.


	17. A Hero's Death

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_A Hero's Death_  
Sometimes a lie is gentler than the truth.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

(Author's note: Some chapters/scenes will be slightly AU, presuming that Helga survived the volcano with the help of Dr. Sweet and Milo Thatch. This will likely be detailed in a later scene.)

* * *

Two sharp raps came against the old but sturdy oak door.

Lieutenant Helga Sinclair chuckled under her breath, but any humor in it died the moment it left her throat. 'Old but sturdy.' Those three words summed up her surroundings perfectly.

The wire of the fencing needed replacing, but the posts were solid. No rot, no leans. The stable roof could use new shingles, but the actual structure had years left in it. The house needed painting, but it was as sound as the day it had been built. Even the old stallion and his mare looked tired and worn, but their eyes shone with no less intelligence than in their prime.

While she waited, the woman on the stoop straightened. She was a soldier, not a delicate creature prone to sentiment.

Her posture remained rigid, but her features softened when the door opened. A withered woman of seventy-five looked at her. Dressed in black, the elderly woman sighed. Her back was bent from years of labor, and her eyes were tired.

"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am," Helga managed. She bowed her head. "I know Mr. Whitmore has called and written, but I wanted to come myself. Offer my personal condolences on the loss of your son."

The old woman heaved a sigh. "Wish I could've put the boy to rest."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Isn't your fault, sweetheart. Come in. I'll make you something to drink."

"I don't drink," Helga replied as she stepped inside.

"You drink tea, don't you?"

"I—" Helga paused. "Yes, ma'am. I do."

"Sit." As she disappeared into the kitchen, the woman sighed again. "Don't seem right, really. Seeing you here without Lyle just in front or just behind."

Helga sank into an armchair, the seat traditionally reserved for the master of the house. She kept her voice low so her hostess wouldn't hear. "It doesn't feel right."

A few minutes and a whistling kettle later, the woman pressed a cup of tea into Helga's hand. Despite the lack of sugar, she drank.

"He's really gone," the woman said.

Helga nodded.

"Said I wouldn't believe it until you said so."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Can I—ask you just one thing, sweetheart?"

"Of course, ma'am. Anything."

The women's gaze met. The older said, "How did it happen?"

Helga closed her eyes and took a long moment to savor her tea. Finally, she met the woman's eyes and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "The way we came was blocked, but we were in a volcano shaft. Only way out was up. We checked the climbing equipment, everything. All secure. Had the whole crew up on a ledge, almost there, when—I don't know what happened. My line broke. Ours were hooked together, but we both had a good grip on the cave wall. It wasn't solid, though." Helga bowed her head. "One of our crew had a hand out to help us the rest of the way. Commander Rourke gave me a push so I could reach, and he lost his grip. Fell." Her voice broke. "There was no way to retrieve the body. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Sweetheart." The old woman grasped the younger's gloved hands. "He died doing what he loved and savin' you. Bet he didn't regret a thing."

Helga sighed before she stood.

"Where you staying?"

"Somewhere in town, ma'am."

"Got reservations?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then you're stayin' right here."

"I couldn't impose."

"I insist."

Before Helga could argue further, the woman was halfway to the stairs, talking to herself about the spare room and fixing it up for her guest.

The lieutenant collapsed back into the armchair and bowed her head again. She rested it in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Confident the other woman was out of range to hear her, Helga repeated what she'd said so many times when she was alone lately.

"God damn you, Rourke."


	18. Darkest Before Dawn

**Some Things Are Personal  
**For the Livejournal 50scenes challenge. A collection of scenes featuring Lieutenant Helga Sinclair.

_Darkest Before Dawn_  
When everything has fallen apart, all that's left is to rebuild.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters who appear in this collection of fiction. They are property of Disney and the creative team behind _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_.

(Author's note: Some chapters/scenes will be slightly AU, presuming that Helga survived the volcano with the help of Dr. Sweet and Milo Thatch. This will likely be detailed in a later scene.)

* * *

As men and women huddled under umbrellas and hurried for shelter, one woman wanted nothing more than to stand out in the rain. Instead, she could only listen to it tap against her window. She wasn't even able to pull back the curtain. Her bed was too far away.

She turned, and her lips parted in a silent cry of pain. Tears welled in her eyes. She refused to let them fall, instead throwing her head back against her pillow. Fire spread through her side, and she wanted more than to thrash. She knew, though, that would only hurt more. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She was a soldier, not a child. All her training forced her to swallow every sound. Her bare fingers trembled as she pressed the buzzer near her bed.

She needed pain medication.

"God," she whispered, slamming her head to the side. Breath came only with difficulty, and she shut her eyes tight to try and forget everything. "Damn."

"You look like Hell, Lieutenant."

She groaned, either annoyed or in pain. As her eyes opened, Lieutenant Helga Sinclair knew she was alone in her room. Still, the company her imagination supplied wasn't terribly objectionable. Not when she knew it wasn't real. And as long as she knew it wasn't real, she wasn't insane.

"No thanks to you," she muttered.

The phantom of Lyle Rourke sighed. His massive shoulders rose and fell with the action, and she watched every familiar muscle extend and contract. He didn't smile, but something in his eyes was warm, inviting. His uniform was pressed, perfect. There wasn't a speck of dirt on him, not a single sign of a scar. He was no worse for the wear than the day she'd met him. "We both did what we had to."

"We underestimated Thatch."

Let the doctor or nurses who answered her call think she was crazy. She knew he was dead. She'd seen the look in Thatch's eyes when she'd asked. Who'd have thought the linguist had it in him to take a life? Especially Rourke's. How in God's name had he managed that? He had to have more than luck on his side to pull it off, she was sure. It didn't matter to her that she was talking to thin air. At least she had someone to talk to. She wasn't used to this. She never got injured this badly, and she never spent hours on end without someone to sit with her. Rourke had always done that, at least for a little bit every day the few times she'd had something that required her to be off her feet for more than a few hours. He'd always taken time to sit with her, make her smile. Take her mind off the pain. He couldn't do that now, not really, but the illusion she conjured would do for now. It would have to do, really. There wasn't anyone else.

"Never thought he'd cause that much trouble." His mouth formed a familiar smile, and she bit back another scream of pain. Even with her eyes closed, she saw him reach for her hand. He curled his fingers around it, but she felt nothing. Maybe if she lost her mind, she could feel him again. For a moment, she wondered if losing herself like that would be better or worse than her current situation.

Her next words made him withdraw and let her breathe, even as something in her chest tightened. "Never thought I'd be expendable."

"Helga."

"I know." Her voice held more venom than she'd meant for it to. "Nothing personal."

"There weren't other options."

"I don't give a damn!"

She tried to sit, wanted to throw something at the shadow of the man, but she fell back to the bed with a strangled gasp. Tears clouded her vision as the room went dark and she saw bright flashes. She choked and shook, pain she couldn't even describe flooding her back.

"Lieutenant!"

Fantasy and reality mixed. She heard her commander's voice but felt real, warm hands on her. Someone drew her in, held her against his broad chest as she quivered from pain. He whispered reassurances as he touched her arm, turned her hand over in one of his, and slid her sleeve up. Something cold pressed against the crook of her elbow, something wet. A moment later, sharp metal bit into the flesh there, and she hissed at the following pressure.

"God," she said under her breath.

"Shouldn't take long." The African-American man holding her came into focus as she opened her eyes. "I told you not to get up. You need rest, got it?"

Too tired to argue and acutely aware of the disarming warmth spreading through her veins every second, she only said, "Yes, sir."

"What had you so riled up anyway?"

"Talking to an old friend." She cracked a smirk as the doctor laid her back on the bed. Her eyes slid closed as her muscles relaxed. Breathing came easier, and she felt sleep winning her over every second.

"Just get some rest. Buzz if you need me again." He pulled the covers over her and left quietly.

As she drifted off to sleep, listening to the rain's gentle rhythm outside, body numb, Helga rolled onto her side. She slid her hand to the edge of the bed, under the blanket. Where some delusional, desperate part of her mind was sure a hand belonged, she felt only the cool, even mattress. She tried to imagine strong arms around her, the voice that had promised nothing would hurt her on his watch. She knew he was gone, knew everything they'd built was gone. No matter how vivid she could let her imagination get, she couldn't escape simple facts. She didn't want to. At least, she was fairly sure she didn't want to.

She knew one thing, though. As soon as she fell asleep, she would dream. As soon as she dreamed, she would no longer be alone.


End file.
